


Hangry

by FiaMac



Series: Portmanteaux With Love [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Robberies Gone Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 11:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10410693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: You're not you when you're hungry... Er, well, unless you're Arthur. Then you're just... yeah.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peabodythecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peabodythecat/gifts).



> Purely meaningless. Because writing this was better than working.
> 
> For peabodythecat, to help with that train wreck.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Arthur mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Eames, ever the optimist in times when no one appreciates an optimist, gives him a game smile. “Come on, peach. Consider it an adventure.” He waves a sweeping hand towards the masked trio swinging guns around the room. Somewhere, someone whimpers in hysteria every time one of the gunmen raises his voice. Which seems to be every nine seconds or so.

Arthur scowls back. “Our day jobs are an adventure, Eames. Our sex life is an adventure. This is just torture.” He nudges his glass of iced tea aside—he said _no_ lemon, thank you—making space to prop an elbow on the tabletop, and grimaces as the sticky surface clings to his sleeve.

“Well that’s a dim way to look at life.”

“I blame you.”

Eames cocks a brow. “Rude.”

Arthur huffs. “We should never have even been here. Why are we even here?”

“Culture, darling.” Eames twirls a hand around in a way that he probably thinks means something. “We’re so rarely in the States. I wanted to experience the authenticity of American cuisine.”

“It’s Applebee’s, Eames,” Arthur deadpans. “You make me eat at fucking _Applebee’s_ , and now this!” He makes his own, ill-tempered, hand wave at the erstwhile robbers. The three men can’t seem to decide who’s in charge and have spent the last five minutes yelling contradictory instructions to the waitress at the register.

“That’s hardly my fault. I didn’t schedule a robbery for tonight’s outing.”

“Next time, I pick the restaurant.”

“ _Would you two shut up!_ ” a man from the next table over hisses. “You’re going to get us killed.”

Arthur rakes a scornful glare over the tableau at the register. “By these douchebags? Pfft. Hardly.”

The man clearly doesn’t appreciate the professional weight of Arthur’s opinion or else he wouldn’t be gawping as if his dick were being pulled up his ass crack.

Eames leans half out of his chair so the man can get the full effect of his pout. “You’ll have to excuse him. We haven’t gotten our meals yet, and his blood sugar is low.”

“Stop implying I’m cranky.” He’s not cranky. Yes, he missed lunch and hasn’t eaten anything more solid than a breath mint in twelve hours. And maybe he’s not in the best of moods because the bacon cheeseburger he ordered—which probably wouldn’t have been more than a small step above inedible anyway—is going to be horribly overcooked now, assuming he ever gets his fucking meal. And _that’s_ assuming these jerk-offs in ski masks figure out their own asses anytime soon. But none of that means Eames gets to talk about him like he’s a toddler.

Arthur flicks over the salt shaker. Because he can.

“He’s _hangry_ ,” Eames confides to the man in a conspiratorial whisper.

“For fucks sake, Eames.”

Eames just shakes his head. “I _told_ you to keep a granola bar in your pocket. Really, I wish just once you’d be reasonable about this.”

Oh, hell no. “I’m so totally the reasonably one in this relationship.”

“ _Omigod, we’re gonna die_.”

“Jesus fucking…” Arthur heaves a hefty sigh that appropriately conveys his displeasure with this whole Applebee’s adventure and springs to his feet.

Eames watches him with interest. “Darling, if you’re up could you see about getting me a refill on my water?”

“Of course,” he gives Eames a warm pat on the shoulder—he really _should_ carry snacks if he’s going to be putting in long days like this, and it isn’t fair to take his temper out on Eames when he’s just trying to be thoughtful—and strides over to where two of the robbers are shoving at each other while the third picks at a basket of fries.

Stepping in between the squabbling robbers, Arthur grabs one by the front of the mask while drawing his gun from under his jacket. In less time than it takes the Whimpering Someone to scream, Arthur has the robber on his knees, neck kicked back to an odd angle from the pressure of Arthur’s gun barrel digging into his forehead.

“Woah! Woah!”

“Dude, _the fuck_? Just chill, bro. Chill.”

The other two robbers throw their arms out, eyes bulging from behind their ski masks. Behind them, the waitress stares with her jaw dropped wide. The restaurant falls silent.

Arthur scowls, the better to let them feel the full measure of his irritation. “This shitshow is fucking with my blood sugar. Knock it off.”

Robbers Two and Three nod slowly, edging away. The one at his feet bursts into tears. “I just needed to pay my internet bill,” he blubbers. “I’m never gonna catch up on _Prison Break_.”

Arthur rolls his eyes hard enough to make his nose flex. Ridiculous.

He lets Robber One slump from his grasp and steals a full water glass from a nearby table. He walks back to Eames and hands the glass over.

“Thank you, petal.”

Arthur hurrumphs. “Let’s get some sushi.”


End file.
